


A Lesson in Respect

by brokibrodinson



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: ConHayth, I am a bad person, I should put more relevant tags on this, Incest, M/M, Virgin!Connor, dubcon, i guess, isn't he always, kink meme prompt, what even is this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-06
Updated: 2013-03-06
Packaged: 2017-12-04 11:53:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/710507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokibrodinson/pseuds/brokibrodinson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the kink meme prompt found <a href="http://asscreedkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/1795.html?thread=9698563">here</a><br/>"Give me something, ANYTHING, based on <a href="http://notyourhaazsleimanblog.tumblr.com/post/45050874340">this</a> "<br/>Note: Image is NSFW</p><p>Haytham really needs to stop having sex in sacred places. Connor is more like his mother than he realises.</p><p>  <a href="http://tieba.baidu.com/p/2202901013">Now also available in Chinese thanks to the lovely rogerlock</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	A Lesson in Respect

Haytham had heard Connor’s approach from a mile away, thanks to a loud skirmish with some redcoats along the snowy paths of the Frontier. One of the soldiers had yelled “Assass-” only to be silenced, the only clue to his fate a wet gurgle.

Haytham sneered to himself. So much for the Assassins’ legendary stealth.  He had deduced that his son was after the traitor, Church, same as he was. In that case, he’d be coming this way. Haytham climbed up to the one of the overhanging wooden struts in the nearby church and waited for his estranged son to arrive.

Connor arrived in much the same fashion as Haytham expected, charging into the small dilapidated church with no thought for stealth or caution. Some Assassin Davenport’s trained, Haytham thought, smirking to himself as he prepared for the ambush.

As Connor sauntered in through the narrow doorway, Haytham tensed his muscles and _pounced,_ as a cat pounces on a mouse.

Connor was knocked down by the force of his weight and Haytham quickly pressed his advantage, pinning his son to the hard wooden floor and releasing his hidden blade. The assassin scowled up at him.

“Father,” he stated flatly.

Haytham smirked down at him. “Connor. Any last words?”

Connor seethed. “Wait.”

“A poor choice,” Haytham replied mockingly, left hand flashing forward with his hidden blade.

Connor shoved him backwards, kicking him away for good measure, before springing to his feet, accusing Haytham of conspiring with Church and the Loyalists.

Haytham rolled his eyes, frustrated with his son’s inability to see the true situation. His goals were more or less aligned with that of the Assassins after all, and he said so; freedom, justice and independence.

Connor retorted that his Templar brothers Johnson, Pitcairn and Hickey surely had no such aspirations, considering they “sought to steal land, sack towns and murder George Washington.”

Haytham sighed, annoyed at the boy’s naiveté. He explained they were not _stealing_ the land so much as _protecting_ it, and encouraging _diplomacy_ – no thanks to Connor ruining his plans.  As for Washington, well. They were better off without him and his miserable leadership skills.

It had been his criticism of Washington that had set Connor off. Before he could so much as draw his sword, Haytham found himself slammed against the church’s wooden wall, Connor’s own hidden blade pressed against his jugular.

“George Washington is a better leader than you could ever dream to be,” Connor hissed, dark eyes flashing with rage. It was at that moment that Haytham couldn’t help noticing his likeness to Ziio. Especially that dark look of fury. That was _very_ Ziio. He pushed such thoughts aside in favour of slamming his knee into his son’s gut. As Connor doubled over in pain, Haytham sidestepped and suddenly Connor was the one who found himself with his back against the wall.

He winced in discomfort as the rough timber dug into his spine but forced himself to ignore it, still breathing heavily and clutching his stomach. Haytham crowded him, pressing closer so he had no room to manoeuvre. “You’re aware that I’ve killed for less,” he said softly.

“I’d expect no less from a Templar,” Connor spat, skin rankling unpleasantly from his father’s proximity.

Haytham laughed at that, a quiet, dark chuckle. “Hypocrite,” he breathed.

He regarded his son silently, sharp eyes taking in his discomfort. It almost verged on fear. He was even _shivering._ Surely Connor was not such a coward that he’d begin to shake at the first sign of danger?  After all, Haytham had no intention of actually killing his son – not yet, anyway.

“Are you afraid?” he asked curiously.

Connor glared at him and raised his chin defiantly. “No.”

“Then why do you shiver so?”

Connor had not even realised he was shaking until then. He held his large frame still, suppressing his discomfort, even as his father drew closer. “I dislike people touching me,” he informed him. Surely there was no harm in telling him that? It was not exactly a secret after all.

“Even when they mean you no harm?” Haytham found himself asking. It was not such an odd thing of course, but judging by Connor’s behaviour it was not so much a mere dislike as an abhorrence that spoke of a deeper trauma.

“Do you expect me to believe you mean me no harm?” Connor replied sceptically.

Haytham laughed shortly. “No! Never that! But in general, do you allow no one to touch you?”

Connor looked miffed. “Not that it’s any of your affair, _father_ , but why should I? There’s no reason for people to touch me.”

The Father of Understanding _damn_ him he looked disturbingly like his mother in that moment, all riled up and defensive.

“ _Never?_ ” Haytham asked, tone dropping to a suggestive lilt before he could stop it. He cursed himself inwardly, _what was he doing?_

Connor simply looked puzzled, unsure at what his father was getting at. “Yes. Never,” he confirmed. He moved then, making to shove Haytham away, but Haytham grabbed his wrist firmly and pinned it against the wall above his head.

“What if you wished to pursue relations of a more... _intimate_ nature,” Haytham asked, voice low. His body was pressed rather indecently against Connor now, but he found he was caring less and less.

It seemed the Assassin had finally caught on, a dark blush spreading across his features. He turned his head away from Haytham so he had more room to breathe, baring his throat in the process.

Haytham found himself wanting to mark that throat, displayed before him as it was. He inwardly recoiled from the thought and gave himself a good mental shake. This was his _SON_. Not to mention an Assassin!

However the seeds of such thoughts had already been sown. When Haytham Kenway wanted something, he took it, consequences be damned.

Connor could sense that the air of threat surrounding his father had passed, though he was still unsure as to his intentions. Nevertheless, he allowed himself to relax somewhat, forcibly ignoring the Templar’s proximity and his own rather compromising position. “I have yet to find someone I would wish to be with in... such a way,” he answered, hesitant but honest.

“Is that so?” Haytham replied. Before Connor could answer, his father’s mouth was at his throat, kissing and nipping at his bare flesh.

Connor made to pull away in shock, but his father had a good grip on him and held him firm, using the weight of his body to press him more securely against the wall.

“Father, you should not-” Connor broke off as Haytham growled hungrily and silenced him, claiming his mouth with his own.

Feeling crowded, overwhelmed and outright _invaded_ , Connor bit down savagely on his father’s bottom lip until he felt his teeth pierce the soft flesh and the blood flow.

Haytham swore viciously, touching a finger to his lip and glaring at Connor as it came away bloody. Connor remained silent, licking his lips free of his father’s blood.

“Now was that wise?” Haytham intoned, raising his hand to Connor’s throat. He had no intention of actually choking him, in fact he meant only to trace the marks he had left earlier, but Connor’s reaction was instantaneous. He practically folded in on himself, flinching away from the hand and shoulders hunching defensively.

Haytham removed the hand at once. “Easy boy, I wasn’t going to hurt you.”

Connor just stared at him, almost unseeing, his eyes glazed with remembered fear.

Haytham released him and backed off. “Are you alright, Connor?”

Connor muttered something under his breath.

“What was that?”

Connor straightened up again, feeling better now that he had his personal space back. He looked Haytham in the eye, his gaze sharp and accusing. “Charles Lee. When I was very young he hurt me.”

Haytham’s immediate thought was to deny such allegations, but he paused. Charles had always had a distinct air of disapproval surrounding him whenever talk of Ziio or her people arose. He assumed it was because the other man worried he was being distracted from the cause, but perhaps it was their _race_ he took issue with. After all, many of the colonists held prejudices against the native people. For what reason, Haytham could not really fathom – they _had_ been there first after all. But alas, the human race had always been more easily given to hate than love for itself.

“What did he do?” Haytham found himself asking.

Connor looked down. “He choked me and said things about my people. Terrible things.”

Well no wonder he was so touchy about his throat then. While not quite ready to believe the young Assassin’s words, he meant to have a word with Charles about it later. It would not do to have his brothers terrorising children after all.

“This is why you wish no one to touch you then,” Haytham commented, more as a statement than a question. Connor nodded anyway, jerkily.

“Well that is unfortunate,” Haytham sighed. More regretfully than he should have perhaps.

Connor fidgeted uncomfortably, lacing his fingers together. Surely his father wasn’t actually interested in him? Such a thing was unheard of.

Haytham was looking out at the snow covered wilderness. “We had better set off after Church,” he said finally. He paused. “Connor, I – I apologise for making you relive such... unpleasantness.” He started walking.

“Wait,” Connor demanded. Haytham stopped.

“Yes?”

“Why were you touching me, if not to harm me?” Connor asked.

“Forgive me, Connor,” Haytham replied uneasily. “A moment’s madness, nothing more.” The guilt was slipping through now, as much as he tried to block it out.

Suddenly Connor was right in front of him, stance uncompromising, voice insistent. “Explain.”

Haytham swallowed a venomous retort and instead said simply “Why do you think?”

Connor was thinking very fast but everything he knew seemed to contradict itself. Two people only touched each other in such a way when they desired each other, but for a father to touch his son in such a way was called _incest_ and that was taboo. Surely Haytham knew that? Perhaps he was so depraved he didn’t care. Was such a man truly his father?

“Do you desire me?” Connor asked finally. “Or is this just another intricate Templar scheme?”

Haytham snorted. “Do you _actually_ believe the Templars would stoop to such methods?”

Connor’s unwavering gaze said it all.

The Templar sighed, “No, it is me. For a moment there you looked rather a lot like your mother.”

Connor hissed in a breath at such an admission. How dare he bring his mother into this?

For the second time that day, Haytham found himself with his back slammed against the wall. “You disrespect my mother’s memory,” Connor snapped.

Haytham would have questioned his phrasing – it was not until later that he learned of Ziio’s fate after all – but for the sudden insistent mouth angrily ravaging his own.

The cut on Haytham’s bottom lip soon reopened under the force of Connor’s mouth, but Connor paid it no heed. Rather it seemed to fuel his sudden bloodlust as he swiped a tongue over the wound, tasting copper.

“What are you doing?” Haytham demanded, regaining his senses.

Connor paused, as if to consider. “Teaching you a lesson,” he decided.

That made as little sense to Haytham as anything the boy did, but he found himself quite enjoying the “lesson.” Presumably, Connor was just making it up as he went along, not so much kissing him as ravishing his mouth first with his lips and later with teeth and tongue added to the mix.

Haytham responded tentatively at first, not wanting to frighten Connor off. That seemed less and less likely however, especially once he felt dexterous fingers fiddling with his clothing fastenings.

 _This is unwise, this is unwise, this is very,_ very, _unwise_ , Haytham’s conscience chided him. He ignored it in favour of thrusting his tongue down his son’s throat.

Connor made a noise of surprise, but recovered quickly, his own tongue coming back into play as he successfully untied the fastenings on Haytham’s cloak and let it fall from his shoulders to the floor. He moved onto the heavy coat without pause.

Haytham pulled Connor’s hood down to tangle a hand in his son’s unruly hair, his other hand dropping to struggle with his assassin robes.

Connor pulled back out of the kiss, slapping Haytham’s hand away so he could begin unfastening the robes. Haytham simply watched for a few moments, before beginning to undress himself.

Connor undressed much more efficiently than his father – Haytham was wearing rather more layers and had folded them in a neat pile rather than scattered all over the floor. Once Haytham was down to his breeches and undershirt he looked up and found his son in nothing but his thigh high boots. His already frayed control snapped. He had to have him.

“Have you any oil, Connor?” he asked, voice rough with want.

“Oil?” Connor repeated, puzzled. “For what?”

Haytham was fossicking through his clothes and armaments and soon found a smallish bottle of weapon oil. Bringing it back over to Connor, he guided him closer to the wall, this time with noticeably less fear involved.

Connor wasn’t sure when his father had taken control again but he was secretly glad of it, being unskilled in such matters. If the wooden wall had been uncomfortable before, it was doubly so now, the rough timber chafing at his bare back. He leaned lightly against it, waiting apprehensively to see what would happen next.

Oiling up his fingers, Haytham carefully placed the bottle on the floor. “Are you ready?” he asked, his dark eyes gleaming.

“Yes,” Connor confirmed, though he wished he knew what it was he was ready for. He was shivering in the cold air and noted with mild annoyance that Haytham was still more or less clothed.

“Now listen,” Haytham ordered, stepping closer. “These,” he showed Connor his glistening fingers, “are going up _here_ ,” he pressed a finger gently against Connor’s rear.

“ _What_?” Connor all but squawked, jumping at the cold finger.

Haytham smiled slightly. “My fingers will stretch you so you can properly take me,” he explained.

Connor thought about that. It was the use of fingers that had confused him – he knew how sex worked, he saw animals reproducing in the Frontier all the time. It made sense. He nodded consent.

It was an odd sensation, feeling a finger enter him. He shifted uncomfortably, willing his body to accommodate the intrusion.

“Relax, Connor,” Haytham said softly, kissing him. Connor loosened his muscles and at once he felt a bit more comfortable, his entrance widening around the finger. Haytham warned him before inserting a second, and later, a third finger.

When Haytham felt that Connor was nice and loose, he carefully curled his fingers, seeking the boy’s prostate. After some careful exploration, Connor suddenly arched with a surprised moan, tensing around the fingers in pleasure.

Stroking him a few more times, indulging him, Haytham withdrew his fingers, reaching down to pick up the oil once again and unlace his breeches. Swiftly oiling up his erection, the Templar pressed his knee against his son and rubbed slowly, teasing him. Connor’s hips jerked forward of their own accord, rubbing sensitive flesh against clothed knee.

Haytham slowly pushed under Connor to rest his knee against the wall behind, his foot up on a raised plank of a wood so his knee was at a right angle. Pulling Connor closer, he pulled his hips towards him, Connor wrapping his booted legs around Haytham’s waist and his arms around his shoulders. Now Connor was more or less sitting on his father’s knee, his back resting against the wall. He could feel Haytham pressing at his entrance, and gasped as he slowly pushed into him. He was quite a bit larger than his fingers had been.

Haytham pulled back out, and then thrust back in, starting off slow but gradually gathering pace. Connor forced himself to relax, concentrating on his own erection pressing against his father’s firm stomach muscles, making them glisten with his own precome.

His position wasn’t the most comfortable, his back digging into the wall as it was, but all that was forgotten as soon as Haytham hit that spot inside him again. He cried out in pleasure, one hand pulling at his father’s silvered ebon hair.

Haytham had reached a solid rhythm and now concentrated on hitting Connor’s prostate. The glorious picture of rapture his son made each time he managed to hit it was worth his concentration. Soon he found himself reaching his peak and his thrusts grew uneven and less accurate, as Connor rode him to ecstasy.

He came with a muffled shout, breathing heavily against the Assassin’s sweat-slicked skin. Connor panted, watching through half-lidded eyes as some of his father’s seed trickled from between his legs onto Haytham’s clothed thigh.

Still catching his breath, Haytham pulled out from Connor, but kept him balanced on his raised knee as he was. Keeping one hand grasping his hip, he used the other to take his son in hand, slicking him up with own precome.

Connor thrust wantonly into his experienced hand, a needy whine escaping his throat.

“Hush, Connor,” Haytham whispered, drawing him into a hungry kiss. He swallowed his cry of pleasure as Connor reached his own climax in his father’s fist.

Connor stiffly climbed down from his perch upon Haytham’s knee – much to Haytham’s relief; the boy was heavy after all. Haytham straightened his leg, wincing a little at its stiffness from being held in one position for so long.

Cleaning themselves up, they dressed in silence, the icy wind whistling through the old church.

The reality of the situation suddenly struck Haytham and he laughed quietly to himself.

“What’s so funny?” Connor demanded, looking over from where he was tying his robes.

“I just buggered my own son in a _church_ ,” Haytham forced out, shoulders shaking with black humour.

To be fair, it was only the structure of a church, there was not even an altar present, but still, the sheer wrongness of the situation was not lost on Connor.

“I... am sorry,” he began, unsure of whether his father regretted his actions or not.

“Oh no, Connor. _I_ am sorry. But,” he plucked his bottle of oil from the floorboards and tucked into his coat somewhere before straightening “what’s done is done. A need was satisfied. For both of us, it would seem...” he glanced appraisingly over at Connor.

Connor looked down, but nodded slightly. It may have been wrong, but it had been _good_. He found he did not particularly regret it.

“Well now,” Haytham dusted himself off as he strode towards the doorway. “Let’s be off.”

 


End file.
